


Sex Robots and Other Colorful Metaphors: A Musical Critique by Bucky Barnes

by blades and arrows (oh_THAT_girl)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: All The Music, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Man Whore Extraordinaire, DJ Iron Man, Deaf Clint Barton, Drummer Bucky, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Natasha and Clint and siblings, Profanity, Singer Natasha Romanov, Tattoo Artist Bucky Barnes, brooklyn music scene, horrible exes, shameless flirting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-09-18 04:31:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9368030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_THAT_girl/pseuds/blades%20and%20arrows
Summary: When his bromo-life mate started dating Tony Stark — otherwise known as DJ Iron Man — Bucky Barnes didn't expect to be dragged to all of his stupid dubstep sets.Dubstep isn't even music. It's computer noises, its what robots sound like when they have sex.But when he runs into a man wearing a sleeveless purple hoodie, Bucky starts to think it isn't all that bad.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this happened. 
> 
> This fix has been brought to you by the delicious image of a heavily tattooed Bucky Barnes and Clint Barton twirling a drum stick in AoU.
> 
> Well, you know what they say, drummers do it with rhythm. 
> 
> *ba da tst*
> 
> *collective groans from the universe*

_Friday, 9:46pm Brooklyn NY_

 

He can hear the music from around the corner; the overly modulated baselines and sampled, heavily autotuned female eurotrash vocals sending a fresh wave of disgust down his spine.

"C'mon Stevie, you can't look me in the eye and tell me that's music. That ain't music, that's the sound of robots fucking."

Steve, who would look out of place anywhere but the New York Public Library — with his khakis, his Lands End dad jacket and loafers for fucks sake— turns around to catch Bucky's charade caliber filthy hand gestures of just what robots look like fucking and rolls his eyes.

"You're such a snob, you know that Buck?" Steve sighs, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, "I wouldn'a asked you to come if you we're just gonna bitch the whole time."

Bucky breaks out in a wide grin, quickening his pace to meet Steve and swing his heavily tattooed arm around his neck, "Oh, come on Stevie. Y'know I'm just bustin' your balls. Of course I'm gonna come watch your boyfriend play his silly wub wub computer noises. The open bar really helps tho Stevie, I gotta tell ya, it really really helps."

Steve sighs, long suffering, then playfully shoves his best friend off his shoulder, taking the smallest bit of satisfaction when Bucky stumbles off the curb.

"Do me a favor tho? No fighting—"

A sharp bark of laughter, to which Bucky replies, "Says you! You stop startin' fights and I won't have to jump in an' join you. C'mon Stevie you know how this works."

"And don't hit on his new singer, she's beautiful but she'll crush your head between her thighs."

Bucky stumbles at that delightfully dangerous image, "Oh, C'mon you can't just _say_ things like that. Now I gotta sleep with the hot singer."

Steve simply smirks at him, "You ain't her type, Buck."

Bucky huffs, "What'ya mean I'm not her type? I'm _everybody's_ type."

Steve and Bucky have been thick as thieves since grade school, and it only seemed natural that they'd end up going into business together. Steve may seem out of place as the co-owner of a tattoo parlor, looking like he fell straight out of an Eddie Bauer catalog, but with his stellar artistic talents and Bucky's incredibly steady hand, it seemed like the obvious way to make a living.

Especially since Bucky's employment opportunities were greatly hindered by his proudly earned criminal record and his inability to pass a background check. He busted the heads of two bridge and tunnel assholes who thought picking a fight with a couple'a queers — during PRIDE, of all times — would be a great way to end a Friday night, and he's gotta be honest, he'd do it again too.

Steve won't admit it, but Bucky is pretty sure he's still pissy about the whole thing if only because Bucky took the fall for it. Steve may have started the fight, but like hell Bucky was gonna let him lose his full ride scholarship to Parsons School of Design over roughin' up a couple'a drunk homophobes on a late night A train.

Riker's wasn't that bad anyways, he may have been a pretty boy in his early 20's, but he's got a murder scowl to die for and the whole grumbling in Russian really shtick kept trouble at bay.

Plus, in his opinion, he looks fantastic in his mug shot. He's got it hanging in his station back at the shop and everything.

Worth it.

The ex-con and the very deceptive golden boy Americana that is Steve Rogers were the oddest couple the likes of which have never been seen, at least until Steve started dating the larger than life DJ Iron Man, one Tony Stark.

Bucky has no one to blame but himself for that one, when he thinks about it. When the YouTube Famous DJ blew into their tattoo parlor one night just before closing for a late night appointment, one look at Steve and Bucky knew he was a goner. Stark comes off as a huge fucking asshole sometimes, but he acts like the sun shines straight from Steve's ass, so he passes muster with flying colors.

He just wish he knew ahead of time he would be wrangled into actually having to stand thru his sets, if for no other reason to keep Steve company. The Gods of Rock and Roll are probably looking down at him right now, beyond disappointed, and Bucky can only hope they understand the sacrifices he's making for his oldest, dearest friend.

Forgive him Keith Moon, for he has sinned. It's been three days since he sat behind his drum kit.

The line in front of the converted warehouse winds around the block, which Steve and Bucky outright ignore as they bypass the waiting masses and head straight to the head of the line where Tony private part time bouncer and full time bodyguard awaits. He's a brick shit house of a man, but the French braid and the blinding smile stand in stark contrast of the 6'6" wall of solid muscle.

"Steven! James!" Thor bellows, his booming voice carrying over the pulsating sounds from inside the venue, "How are we tonight my friends?"

"Ah, you know, the usual," Bucky drawls, being swept into Thor's customary greeting of a hearty hug, holding his arm out for his VIP wristband, "Gotta keep this knucklehead outta trouble."

Thor laughs, loud and golden, shaking his head as he turns to Steve with a shine in his eye, attaching his own wristband, "Tonight's set is going to be epic, he's premiering his new vocalist. A powerful voice if there ever was one."

Steve grins, nodding in response, "We can't wait, can we Buck."

Bucky nods as he grabs Steve's hand, pulling him to the door and one step closer to the very open bar, shouting over his shoulder, "We'll see you tonight at the shop, yeah?"

Thor nods, shooting them a thumbs up, before turning back to his duties, leaving the two to step into, what Bucky calls, La La Land.

The atmosphere hits them head on as they make their way down a flight of stairs, the opening DJ making a remixed mess of some Top 40 hit Bucky is sure is all the rage with the kids these days, wading through a sea of sweating, gyrating bodies adorned in ridiculous neon costumes.

He's only 28, and Bucky feels too old for this shit.

Steve, being the taller of the two, quickly picks Tony's manager — a ruthlessly efficient redhead by the name of Pepper — out of the crowd and begins to head in her direction. Bucky grabs his elbow, pointing to the bar with a grin and Steve let's him go with a shake of his head, knowing Bucky has plans to get good and drunk before the night is out.

Parting ways, Bucky uses his considerable muscle mass to shoulder his way towards the bar, expertly slipping between spinning, grinning idiots until he slides into a barstool fairly close to the stage.

He's started enough mosh pits in his day, he knows how to navigate a crowd.

When the bartender, a petite little thing with pigtails who Bucky may or may not recognize, asks what he's having, he leans across the bar and shouts, "Jameson, on the rocks."

She nods, reaching for a highball glass, but Bucky stops her, showing off his arm band, "In a big boy glass," pointing to the row of pint glasses.

He throws her his very best grin, for good measure, and directly hands her a folded $20 bill as a tip which she accepts with a smile and slips into her bra, turning her back to make his drink as ordered.

Unable to stop himself from rapping out a beat on the bar top with his knuckles as he waits, he glances towards the stage, sharp eyes jumping from face to pretty face in search of tonight's distraction. Bucky isn't stupid, he knows exactly how attractive he is, and he'd be less willing to be dragged to these sorts of things if it wasn't for the almost guarantee he'd be getting laid that night.

There's a tap on his elbow, and when Bucky looks over, he's confronted by the prettiest face attached to the most solid set of shoulders he's ever had the privilege to lay his eyes on.

Pretty Face is saying something, but he cant hear over the god awful music. He seems to realize this, rolling his eyes at himself, before pressing a well calloused thumb up against Bucky's ear.

He leans in, his voice muffled but definitely more audible, and repeats, "Smashing Pumpkins?"

Bucky's face lights up with a genuine smile — he hadn't even realized he was playing Tonight Tonight — and that smile only grows when Pretty Eyes nods encouragingly to continue. He begins again, and watches with glee as Pretty Eyes's taps along in time before seamlessly beating and slapping along, taking over for the bass drum and high hat cymbals.

Neither need to be able to hear what the other is playing, the beat felt between their hands on the wooden bar top. The opening set ends with a roar of applause and drunk women whooping, but Bucky and Pretty Eyes haven't seemed to notice as they grin at one another.

"Bucky Barnes," he says, holding out his hand, "And you are?"

Pretty Eyes isn't given time to respond, however, when Bucky is so rudely interrupted by a hard slap on his ass by none other than Tony fucking Stark who slings an arm around his shoulder.

"Nope! None of that Bucky Boo." Tony all but yells into his ear, and Bucky closes his eyes and counts to three, "How goes it grumpy gills?"

When he opens his eyes, Pretty Eyes is gone, and he levels Tony with a flat glare, "Whaddya want Tony, you scared Pretty Eyes away."

Tony slides into the now empty spot, sliding his ridiculous shudder shade to perch at the bridge of his nose, "Who Clint?"

"I don't know, didn't get his name," Bucky replies as the bartender leaves his drink in front of him, which he takes gratefully, "Blue eyes, shoulders for days—"

"Okay, I'm going to stop you right now," Tony cuts him off, stealing the pint glass from Bucky's hand and taking more than a sip, "Clint is good people, and I will not allow your man whoring ways to defile what's good and pure in this world."

"Hey!" Bucky snaps, stealing back his drink, "I resent that."

Tony just levels him with a flat look, "Says the man who proudly calls himself Man Whore Extraordinaire on his Grindr profile. I mean it Boo Bear, you're family. I love you and your magnificent ass dearly, but so help me if you get your dick wet and ditch him, it won't be me you have to worry about. His sister is as terrifying as she is beautiful."

Bucky leans back, trying to catch a flash of the purple, sleeveless hoodie among the throng of sweaty children, before Tony is grabbing his chin, pulling his attention back to his face, "I'm serious Barnes, not this one. I know things have been rough since Brock but—"

Bucky glares at him, "I thought we took a vow to never say that name again."

Tony holds his hands up in surrender, before continuing, "Sorry, sorry. I know, I know. Just—" he pulls Bucky into a hug, resting his head on the taller mans shoulder, "remember my offer. I can have him and his shitty trash metal band black listed from every venue in the boroughs. Banish him to Jersey if you want."

Bucky shakes him off, taking another large, biting drink of whiskey before glaring at Tony, "Why are we friends again?"

"Because Steve loves me," Tony replies cheekily, "which means thru the transitive property of bromance, you love me too."

Well, the guy does have a point.

After the spectacularly public break up of Bucky and his ex Brock — it was in the underground music blogs for weeks — Tony really stepped up to his, as he called them, Future Brother-In-Law duties when he dragged a thunderous Steve from the apartment as Bucky made a valiant effort to reach the end of Netflix. Tony never came clean with what was said or done — just that words were exchanged and they we're all adults about it, which Bucky highly doubts — but the threatening 2am voicemails stopped, and he never saw Brock's truck parked menacingly across from the shop after that.

"You plan on sticking around to watch my set, or would it ruin your rock god aesthetic?"

Bucky stands, grabbing his drink and pushing Tony towards the stage as the shorter man cackles in delight, "You're lucky I love you Stark."

•••

Thor was right about the singer, because holy shit.

Her voice was just as gorgeous as she was, and the range on that woman could give Freddy Mercury — may he rest in fabulous peace — a run for his money. She sang live, statuesque under the hot lights, juxtaposed perfectly with Tony's manic, over the top performance style and the crowd was going wild.

Bucky sat perched on a stack of wooden boxes, high above the pulsating throng of dancers below, but his eyes weren't trained on the beautiful redhead or Tony's flashy moves, but on the flashes of purple he saw every so often in the crowd. Clint danced as well as she sang, fluid and graceful, his hands thumping against his chest in beat with Tony.

And when Tony dropped the — filthy, disgusting and nasty, he's assured — beat, it was like light exploded from his chest and the only person in that warehouse basement was Clint.

He doesn't care what Tony says, because when Clint looks up from the crowd and makes eye contact with Bucky, a wrecked and sinful smile on his lips, Bucky is left with no choice than to get this man in his bed.

At the very least get his phone number


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's got a plan, it's a great plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello my darling dears, your comments and kudos give me life <3
> 
> There's going to be a ton of music references in this story, so I'm going to do my best to link to relevant videos so you can get an idea of what I'm trying to convey. 
> 
> This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

_Saturday, 12:03 am_

Bucky's got it all figured out. He's gonna wait for the set break, find Clint, and, while looking as dashing as possible, ask him if he wants to make out. It's a great plan, with a 95% success rate, and the man had seemed all too receptive before Tony fucking Stark had to make his presence known and fuck up his game.

For now, he's leans against the bannister on the wrap around loft with the less busy bar, giving him the perfect vantage point to watch Clint dance, which, he's gotta hand it to the guy, the man had some sweet moves. He was nursing a bottle of beer from some Long Island brewery, awesomely named Hoptical Illusion, because he didn't want to be a sloppy seagull when going into for the kill — when Steve caught his eye.

Since childhood, his brain was trained to catch the thunderous look on Steve's face and the righteous square of his shoulders that meant Steve was about to throw himself head first into a fight, and right now the man in question was cutting across the crowded floor looking like murder. Cursing sharply under his breath, Bucky downs the rest of the bottle, leaving it on the bar behind him and hurries towards the stairs, thanking fuck that Steve's very late adolescent growth spurt made him easy to spot in a crowd.

He watches him disappear towards the entrance, so Bucky turns on his heel to leave through the street level side exit.

He bangs out the door, jogging now, ready intercept Steve at the main entrance before anything spectacular starts. He hasn't seen Steve like this in years, not since he threw Brock down a flight of stairs and got them banned from _another_ bar on St. Marks Place.

He rounds the corner and skids to a stop, air caught in his chest, because speak of the devil and he shall fucking appear.

Thor's massive body is all that stands between a smirking Brock fucking Rumlow and a red faced, outraged Steve, who is swearing up and down and on all of the saints and their mothers that he's gonna make true on his promise to destroy every fiber of his miserable being if he ever saw him again.

And Brock, the smirking bastard, just stands there with his arms crossed, his bulldog of a friend Rollins at his side, and says, "What, it's a free country Rogers. Don't see why I gotta avoid the world because your precious butt buddy Bucky occupies it."

He can't breath, his teeth clenched and hands balled into fists, because the last time he saw Rumlow was—

"Well, if it isn't the man of the hour himself," Brock calls out, just noticing Bucky frozen on the corner, his lips twisted into a malevolent smile, "Been a long time, sweetheart."

Bucky can't quite pinpoint when he started running, but he's well aware of the impact he makes when he spear tackles Brock to the god damn ground in a fit rage and fury. There's hands on his shoulders and arms, and he struggles against their strength, screaming obscenities and doing everything in his power to punch or kick that god awful smirk off Brock's stupid fucking face.

Thor lifts him bodily, but not before Bucky gets one solid stomp to Brock's stomach — and Bucky is grateful he decided to wear his shit stomping, motorcycle boots tonight — and he's being carried off.

Steve's on the phone, and nods to Thor as he carries Bucky like he isn't a 160 lb grown ass man, and when they round the corner, he finally stops struggling.

"Are you alright?" Thor asks gently, placing Bucky on his feet.

Bucky just sits on the disgusting city sidewalk, not caring about the dried spit and bird shit, and buries his face in his hands, "No. I'm pretty fucking far from alright," he scrubs his face, grateful he hadn't started crying, and looks back up at Thor, "I fucking hate that asshole, he showed up he on fucking purpose. Brock would'n'a been caught dead at an EDM show."

Thor just nods understandably, sitting down next to him, "Steven gave him a firm talking to."

Bucky snorts, unable to hide the grin on his face at the image of Steve, his Stevie, wagging his finger and tutting like a yenta out in Brighton, "If that's what you wanna call it."

Thor bumped his shoulder, grinning in return, "He is deceptively quick to fight for such a charming man."

"Buddy, you don't know the half of it."

Steve returns, eyebrows furrowed with a bashful, half cocked smile, "I'm real sorry about that Buck, I tried to cut him off at the pass but—"

"But my Stevie Senses were tingling, yeah yeah I know."

"Happy is gonna give us a lift back," Steve says, reaching down to haul Bucky to his feet, the booze and a head rush leaving him unsteady on his feet as Tony's ridiculous red and gold Escalade pulls up, "You wanna call off tonight or..."

"No, no," Bucky waves him off, tucking deeper into Steve's side, "Rock star status Stevie. I wanna see everyone at our place later." He points in Thor's direction, who gives him a grin and two thumbs up, "I ain't lettin' Brock fuckin' Rumlow ruin my night, fuck him."

Steve opens the back door for him and all put deposits Bucky into the backseat, and he's shocked when Steve follows.

"You don't gotta come, c'mon man. Stay and watch your boyfriends wub wub music."

Steve just shakes his head as he slides into the SUV, shooting Thor a grateful smile, "Not gonna happen, pal."

Bucky puts his head in Steve's lap as Happy pulls off, expertly navigating the massive truck through the narrow streets of the industrial area as he heads back towards Red Hook.

"I fuckin' love you Stevie."

"Love ya too Buck."

•••

Bucky's family has lived in Brooklyn since the onset of World War 1. His Great Grammy had fled Russia for New York via London, where she met and fell in love with a handsome young man name Buchanan Barnes on the boat ride to the states.

His Ma told him it was all very sweet and romantic, but Gram Barnes told him the truth: Her mother had chased his shy Great Grandfather around that ship for weeks, caught up to him as they were about to disembark and told him straight up he was gonna take her out on a fancy New York City date.

She wouldn't take no for an answer, and the rest is history.

Once settled in Red Hook, they dumped their life savings into a small textile factory off the Gowanus Canal. His great grandmothers natural Russian mistrust of the banking system and a healthy export business helped them survive the Great Depression, leaving the Barnes family with waterfront, industrial property along the most polluted strip of water in Brooklyn, paid in full.

He and Stevie grew up running around that factory, fighting imaginary dragons and saving imaginary princesses, sailing the high seas in old fabric basket trolleys and bravely fighting the dreaded kraken that would rise from the deep, dirty depths of the canal.

When his grandmother died a few years back, Bucky's parents had inherited the wealth while Bucky had been bestowed the beloved building much to his parents irate dismay, they we're hoping to cash in on what the property was worth in the pre-recession market.

It was perfect.

The perfect place to run their business, the perfect place to throw ragers and play music until dawn, the perfect place to rest his head and call home.

"Where's my big dumb puppa dog!" Bucky shouts as he enters the back living area of his building, dropping his keys haphazardly on a side table before plopping unceremoniously to the ground, "Come to Daddy, you beautiful bastard!"

Dum Dum is a monster of a Mastiff Bully mix, and he is everything that is good and pure in Bucky's life. Saved from death row at the local shelter — which turned Bucky into a huge breed discrimination advocate —Dum Dum is a massive, three-legged, deceptively sweet and happy idiot that Bucky adored with his entire being.

Brock had hated the mutt.

A thunderous bark answers him, pushing all thoughts of his bastard ex boyfriend out of his head, and Dum Dum comes tumbling down the stairs from Bucky's loft with all of the grace a 130 lb dog can muster after being roused from sleep. Bucky grins and spreads his arms wide as Dum Dum slides across the hardwood floor, barreling into him with such force that he sends Bucky sprawling onto his back.

"There's my handsome man," Bucky laughs, Dum Dum pinning him to the ground as he slobbers all over his face, "Did you miss Daddy? Because Daddy missed you, my big, dumb puppa, yes he did. Ooooh, Daddy loves your puppa kisses, thank you."

Steve side steps around the dog pile on the ground, shaking his head as he reaches over to flick the multiple light switches on, "You good Buck? Need anything?"

"Wine and beer!" Bucky sings from the floor.

"Hows about a hand up?"

Bucky blinks his eyes open, grinning up at Steve, "You're a good man, Steve Rogers."

For the second time that night, Steve drags Bucky to his feet, steadying him with two hands on his shoulders, "You wanna lay down for a bit?"

Bucky shakes his head, frowning as his hair falls into his face — he's really gotta go get a trim, because this is a getting ridiculous — and then drunkenly smiles up at the best friend a man can ask for, "Nah, I'm gonna go smash a kit for a bit."

"We got people comin' over!" Steve shouts after him, but Bucky ignores him.

"My place my rules!" Bucky shouts back as he slides the barn door to his rehearsal space open, stepping into his Happy Place with a content sigh.

Steve has his art, but Bucky has his music.

Suffering from a major case of Gear Acquisition Syndrome, over the years Bucky has built himself an impression collection of instruments. An array of Strats and Fenders guitars lined the walls, but for the most part, they were for show because deep down in his soul and his bones, Bucky is a rhythm man.

Grabbing his sticks from where they rested on the snare drum, he drops himself onto his stool and takes a deep breath, because tonight, right now, what he needs to feel the ghost of [Keith Moon](https://youtu.be/9g30nwCpyaA) flow through him.

Rolling his shoulders and loosening his wrists, Bucky breaks into a smile and drops into the beat.

It's none of the methodologically minimalistic yet loud, cymbal heavy swing of [Ringo Starr](https://youtu.be/XQdI1oo9Swc); the technically tight, complex and lightning fast rhythm of [Stewart Copeland](https://youtu.be/wpO6TubZz9U); it was the balls to the wall, wide armed swings of a comet strapped to two drums sticks.

A one man orchestra of high energy, melodic mania that drives a song forward with reckless abandon. Switching seamlessly between quiet intensity before dropping a god damn atomic bomb of spontaneous expression, a force of nature that happened to have a drum kit in front of him.

He's sweating now, keeping a steady kick drum beat long enough to tear his shirt over his head, before he rolls down the toms and throws himself back into the rhythm.

When Bucky was 12, he lit a candle and listed to Tommy in the darkness of his childhood bedroom and his life changed.

He saw his entire future.

Brock had hated him, called Keith Moon a sloppy drummer, and the thought only made Bucky play wilder.

He swings his arms like Stevie's paint strokes, an audible Pollock painting, musical fury incarnate. He loses himself in the melody, a mad scientist timpanist rolling through snare triplets, swing playing with syncopated beats against the bass line in his head.

He's in so deep, he doesn't know how long he's been playing, he doesn't even realize he has an audience until he pauses to catch his breath.

A low, long whistle knocks him back to reality, and Bucky snaps his head up, absolutely gobsmacked to see Clint leaning against the door way, his magnificent arms crossed in front of his chest, an impressed expression on his face.

Bucky doesn't have time to ask what the hell he's doing here before Clint motions to the Ibanez bass, cradled in its stand next to the vintage Orange stack.

"May I?"

Bucky nods dumbly, unable to make any fucking sense as to the how or why Clint has found himself at Bucky's of all place — he vaguely wonders if this is Tony's doing, and if it is he's going to have to send that man a muffin basket or something — as Clint swings the strap over his amazing shoulders and plugs into the amp.

After a quick check to make sure it's in tune, and of course it is, Clint shoots Bucky an incredibly bright and flirtatious smile before sliding his fingers down the neck of the bass and making Bucky's jaw hit the ground.

This guy, this fuckin' guy with his beautifully bright eyes and those fuckin' _shoulders_ , expertly drops into John Entwistles bass solo from The Who's [5:15 ](https://youtu.be/BhfYhh1JC7A)and Bucky is immediately hard and ass over end in _lust_ with this man.

Clint raises his eyebrows and just like at the bar, gives him another encourage nod, and Bucky has no choice but to pick up his drum sticks and quickly drops into a groove.

Jesus, as a musician, all Bucky can do is marvel as Clint fully embodies Thunderfingers spirit with that incredible right hand technique and the blur of his hand as it flies up and down the neck of the bass. As a drummer, however, he feels obligated and honored to round out the sound with constant fills, holding on tight as he rides the crash cymbal.

They make eye contact as Clint winds down, and his smile is blinding. Bucky lets out a breathy laugh, standing up and making his way around his kit in amazement.

"Fuck man," Bucky laughs, pushing a hand through his hair, "That was— your technique— fuck, _thank you_ for that."

And Clint blushes — _blushes_! — as he rubs a hand across his neck, "You disappeared before I could properly introduce myself." He holds out a hand, which Bucky takes without hesitation, and the two stand there, awestruck, neither in any rush to let go, "I'm Clint."

"Bucky, Bucky Barnes."

"Get a room!" Tony shouts, and the pair snap their heads over to find they have an audience.

Bucky glares, about to open his big mouth, but Clint beats him to it, rolling his eyes, "Fuck _off_ Tony."

Tony just cackles, completely unapologetic.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a musician, but I can talk about music all the live long day. 
> 
> This has been essentially a love letter to the late greats Keith Moon and John Entwistle from The Who. Moonie died far before I was born, but I got the chance to see The Who play MSG when I was in high school before right before John Entwistle passed in 2002, and that bass solo knocked me on my ass.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Bucky flirt with reckless abandon, and Tony forces his way into the narrative, I couldn't stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM ALIVE AND IM SO SORRY.
> 
> I was dealing with selling my house, and in the middle of it all, I dropped my iPhone, which I write everything on, in a cup of coffee because I'm an actual, real life disaster.
> 
> I don't know how I've survived this long, honestly.
> 
> Anyway, here's 8000+ words to make up for it.
> 
> I love you guys, for real real. Thanks for putting up with me.

Clint was cool, once.

No, scratch that. Clint _is_ cool, totally is. Honestly, he's got this.

Clint can do music — he's going deaf, not blind. He knows his sweet bass technique completely blew Bucky out of the water, score one to Barton — but small talk and basic conversation? Oh man, words. He has them, but stringing them together into something that resembles a coherent conversation is not one of his very many skills.

Also, brain to mouth filter? Not the best.

Yet, here he is, staring at the _shirtless_ , heavily tattooed drummer who somehow manages to look effortlessly put together yet well fucked at the same time, and Clint knows he has to stay focused.

He can't blow his own spot by mentioning anything he's learned about the beautiful looking bastard lurking in the background of Tony's Insta's Bucky's wicked grin started showing up with the addition of Steve in Tony's weekly catch-up FaceTime appointment. Clint absolutely will not let it be known he's memorized that smile.

Or how one night while he was holed up in Natasha's apartment in St. Petersburg, passing a bottle of wine between them, he casually pointed out how attractive he was — Nat maintains thats a bold face lie; there was _nothing_ causal about how he practically climbed into her lap and spent the next fifteen minutes singing songs about the depth of his blue eyes, pouting when she didn't join along because she didn't know the words, Clint.

After fulfilling her sisterly duty of filling him in on all the embarrassing details the next morning, Nat had put her FBI hat on and completed a full dossier on one James Barnes of Red Hook, Brooklyn.

He going to pretend that they didn't scroll through six _years_ of photos to the very end of his Insta, both business and personal. They absolutely did not google his name to discover he used to play drums in some thrash metal band called Hydra, nor did they trawl through his Twitter and Facebook, cross referencing it with local music and Brooklyn culture blogs to establish that Bucky left the band after he and the singer split.

A very public, very ugly split. With video evidence. There were tears, broken bottles and smashed guitars, it was very rock and roll and _oh_ , can Clint empathize.

If Clint has a private YouTube playlist of all of Hydra's videos for the exclusive purpose of listening to Bucky's aggressively precise double bass drum, well, that's between him and Nat's scary Russian neighbors because those apartment walls were thin.

But now Bucky is smiling at him with the smile Clint memorized from his late night lurking sessions and really, the dim light of bars and clubs really don't do it justice.

It's blinding.

Bucky is _exactly_ Clint's type; tall yet broad shouldered, long dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Which, he admits, also perfectly describes Loki, but past those basic descriptions, the two men couldn't be more different. Bucky's smile is warm and genuine, not cold and sharp, and Bucky's height is complimented by strong muscles and thighs to die for.

Clint wants to intimately know the feeling of getting his head caught between the steel trap of those thighs.

Okay, he's getting ahead of himself.

To be honest it makes Clint feel like he's gonna hurl because he was so not ready to have his awkward attempts at flirting to be well received, but here he is, following Bucky out of the safety of his rehearsal space. He shoulder checks Tony, hard, on his way out, because even though he took Clint to the side to warn him of Bucky's manwhoring ways at the bar, Clint reminded him — and himself, that's the important part — that he's a strong, independent gay man who don't need no one hovering over his shoulder.

So two snaps and an around the world for Clint.

That was the entire point of his sabbatical in Russia; clean the wounds left by that gaslighting thundercunt Loki and reclaim who Clint Barton is.

And if he spent the majority of that time stubbornly refusing to wear his hearing aids while spooning a bottle of vodka, well. He's grown immune to Natasha's disapproving glares anyway.

He spots his sister across the room chatting with Rhodes, and the warm twist of her lips speaks volumes. His sister had done her homework — apart from their lurking, knowing Nat, she most likely knows the mans social security number and blood type by now — and already gave her enthusiastic approval. If there's anyone on this planet looking out for Clint's best interests, it's his sister.

She raises an elegant eyebrow, and her smirk blends into a full smile when Bucky reaches back to grab his hand.

Clint's about to try for a totally smooth and not at all corny one liner about drummers, bassists and keeping rhythm but his whole game is thrown off by a deep echoing bark from across the room. He lets out a soft gasp, his feet planted, as he tries to zero in on the location of whatever dog was capable of a bark like that over the buzz of the background noise.

Bucky stops walking, turning around and meeting Clint's eye with a questioning look.

"Holy hell," Clint says, "That's a big ol pupper."

"Oh, Dum Dum?" Bucky asks, but suddenly his face shifts into something more worrisome, his bottom lip tucks into his teeth, "Do you not like dogs? I can—"

"No!" Clint blurts out, maybe a bit too forcefully, grabbing Bucky's forearm as he does so, "I love— yes to dogs. All the dogs, completely on board with dogs, it's just— wow, he's so big. He can't be real."

Bucky's face breaks out into a relieved grin, his shoulders relaxing as he says, "Wanna meet him? He looks like a monster but—"

"Yes," Clint breathlessly answers, unable to take his eyes off the pointy eared, jowly faced, block headed, three legged, giant _baby_ that's stomping around with a rope in his mouth, hounding for attention.

Bucky nods and then let's out a high pitched whistle, bending his knees slightly, shifting his stance and squaring his shoulders as this beautiful, monstrous dog comes barreling towards them. He takes a peak over at Clint, smiles, then braces himself as this behemoth damn near flies through the air, dropping his mammoth paws straight down onto Bucky's broad shoulders, the two now standing eye to eye.

Clint's pretty sure his jaw is hovering dangerously close to the floor at this point, he's never seen a pittie this size before.

Bucky wraps his tattooed arms around his dog as Dum Dum happily licks his face, his stubby little tail a blur, "Was mean ol' Uncle Stevie not payin' attention to you? My poor handsome man havin' to beg for attention, I'm sorry buddy boy."

As Clint stares, he's mentally trying to talk down his impending boner because this just isn't fair. Who the fuck does this guy think he is, with his perfect ass and his hair and those eyes, baby talking to this big scary looking dog like the perfect, sweetie pie pup he probably is.

Jesus Christ, Clint was not prepared for this at _all_. He came into this situation full well knowing all about Dum Dum — the dog is prominently featured on Bucky's Instagram — but seeing the two interact is doing things to him in the very best way.

The dog drops down on the old hardwood floors with thud, immediately sitting at Bucky's feet and Bucky follows him to the ground, gentling tugging Clint along with him, "Clint, this is Dugan but uh, we call him Dum Dum. Say hi to Clint, Dum Dum."

Clint suddenly has a lap full of pup, waving Bucky off as he tries to drag him back by the silver studded leather collar, "C'mon bud, knock it off. We talked about this."

"It's cool," Clint laughs, scratching Dum Dum's neck with both hands to the dogs absolute delight, "If being crushed to death by two tons of doggo is how I go, I've made my peace with it."

He glances over to Bucky, who is staring at the pair with a hazy look of warmth and wonder, drawing a smile out of Clint. He keeps his attention on Dum Dum, using him to hide the blush on his cheeks as he says, "I bet you were an adorable little pupper, huh Dum Dum."

"I wouldn't know," Bucky replies for him, "My dudes a rescue, already full grown when I got 'em." He says this with a heavy sigh, reaching out to scratch behind a pointed ear, "A rescue group posted his picture on Facebook, sayin' he was found prowlin' 'round the Bronx and scarin' the kids, was gonna be destroyed," he scowls around the word destroyed, and Clint agrees that's a terrible way to describe the death of a dog. Bucky's face softens though, smiling as he admires his very good boy, "He was mean muggin' in the picture, but somethin' 'bout his face told me that was just for show, ya know? And don' get me wrong, this guy can be a punk at times, but he's a big softie. I took him home that night, we been best buds since."

Clint's heart breaks and swells all at once — he knows pitt bulls have a bad reputation, let alone one as colossal as Dum Dum — and he proved himself wrong when he thought he couldn't admire this man more.

"I didn't know they made pit bulls this big."

"S'cause he's a mutt. The rescue figures he's got some Mastiff in him, makin' him look like a giant pittie. The neighbors know us, but people still cross the street or stare. He's just a big mush tho, I got a sister out east on Long Island and her kids are crazy 'bout him."

"I have a dog, I kinda stole him from my old neighbor," Clint says, pulling his phone out of his kangaroo pocket to show Bucky his lock screen — Kate and Lucky cheesing for the camera on the lawn at Prospect Park — before continuing, "That's Lucky and my best friend Katie-Kate, she's been apartment and dog sitting for me while I was overseas. He's dumb as shit but such a good boy."

Dum Dum grumbles, head butting Clint's chest, and Bucky sighs loudly next to them, shaking him out of the nostalgia, "Yeah, yeah I know bud, I'm the worst. Go getcha lead."

Dum Dum scrambles back, prancing happily around them once, and then takes off across the room, bolting up the metal stairs along the far wall.

"You uh," Bucky begins, running a hand thru his hair, "You wanna come with? I got back and kinda skipped the part where I'm a responsible dog daddy and beat the fuck outta my drums instead."

Clint can't tell if the flush creeping across Bucky face is from the booze or what, but he takes the opportunity to grab his hand with a grin, "Lead the way."

•••

 _1:45 am, A Brief Intermission feat. Tony Stark_.

Growing up, Tony spent a good chunk of his childhood either running around Studio 54, being doted on by disco artists and porn stars alike as his father, music producer Howard Stark, spent his time in a cocaine and scotch fueled daze or attending high society events at the Rainbow Room with his socialite mother before helping their driver pour her back into the limo to bring them back to their guilded 5th avenue penthouse.

If only his parents could see him now, holding court in a worse for wear, turn of the century warehouse in industrial Red Hook. Tony wouldn't have it any other way, if he's completely honestly. The space is so perfectly Steve and Bucky, with exposed brick walls and high beam joints, mismatched furniture seemingly dragged from every thrift store and street corner in Brooklyn. If he didn't know them so well, he'd accuse them of being a part of the hipster swarm that blanketed the borough from the Midwest — what, with the beat up old arcade cabinets and the pair of Harley's stashed in a corner — but these two breathe and bleed Brooklyn, all rough edges with attitude to spare.

Like a brilliantly bright star sitting pretty in the center of a solar system, the gravitational pull of Tony's charisma and ego surrounds him with the best of the best of the best. He loves each and every one of his sugar plum dumplings like family and he take the self proclaimed title of Fairy Squad Father quite seriously.

"Natasha, my love and light, the darling of dubstep," Tony croons, as Natasha walks towards him, two bottles of beer in hand, "Have I told you lately that I love you? Come, walk with me."

Classically trained and classically beautiful, statuesque in her black bodycon dress and four inch heels, Natasha just finished a very prestigious residency at a very prestigious Russian symphony house. She is well traveled, having spent the past five years jet setting the globe with guest appearances and solo performances, but now she is all Tony's and he is never letting her go.

Tony will be forever in Clint's debt for convincing Natasha to sign on with him, putting him steps ahead of Justin Hammer and his heavily sampled, chopped up female vocals. Not that he takes their friendly competition personally — that's a lie, he absolutely does and it's anything but friendly — but Tony is all aboard for anything that makes Hammer look and sound like the king of trash that he is.

"You already know Rhodey and Pep," Tony begins in his best tour guide voice as they pass the pair lounging on an overstuffed love seat, "The two best people you'll ever meet, present company excluded, of course."

James Rhodes — the one and only, his main man, compatriot in calamity and brother from another mother — is the Bucky to his Steve.

Tony claimed him as his own the first day of 8th grade after they were sat alphabetically next to one another in biology. Rhodey, to Tony's absolute delight, gave not one single fuck that he was Howard Stark's son, which was a huge breath of the freshest air Manhattan in September could offer. Having previously spent years dealing with the social leeches at his private school — his peers were stuck up trust fund babies born with diamond studded platinum spoons in their mouths — Rhodey quickly became Tony's Favorite Person and has been quietly enabling Tony's incredibly poor impulse control ever since.

There was never any doubt that Tony would be dragging Rhodey along on this wild and crazy whirlwind of a ride and it was through Rhodes he was blessed with the stunningly beautiful and perfectly pragmatic Virginia Potts.

Pepper, she's the best. Tony probably doesn't deserve her. She's not only the very best manager slash PR professional slash social media mastermind money could buy, she is also one of the few people on the planet who can wrangle Tony in. She responsible for stamping out Tony's more ridiculous ideas like indoor pyrotechnics and the full body robot suit to one up those Daft Punk bastards.

She doesn't care that it perfectly embodies his aesthetic, every time he brings it up, she gives him a pointed and exasperated, "Tony, no."

He will just have to make due with his on brand, custom red and gold light up Jordan high tops for the time being.

"The two hiding in the corner behind their laptops are Brucie Bear and Wanda," Tony says in hushed tones, as if he'll startle his precious little introverts back into hiding, "My very talented sound and light team. Wanda is half of my other set of my twins, I'm starting a collection, by the way. Her brother Pietro heads my street team, the boy is very difficult to keep track of. I keep trying to put a bell on him, but Wanda won't let me," he says with an exaggerated pout as Wanda shoots him a smoldering, long suffering look.

Bruce looks up from his laptop and offers the smallest of smiles. The man needs to learn how to take a compliment for fucks sake. Bruce is a friend, and Tony makes it a habit to be friends with talented people. He had annoyed Brucie Bear into his reluctant employ and genuine friendship, personally showing up to his house and the shitty little bar he used to work at and then his house a few more times after that. Working the sound at that shit hole dive for bands that offended his soul was far beneath the mans genius. The man is a master, a maestro of vibration, and Tony poked and prodded until the man finally relented.

Tony is very persuasive, and Pietro equally so.

He's a modern day club kid after Tony's own heart, a motormouth with his fingers firmly on the pulse of the city's underground nightlife. It was only logical to take him on board, but he came with one condition: consider his sisters portfolio. Wanda made magic with her light shows; he plucked straight from her graduation at SVU, a quiet little thing with eye to die for. It was only good business to take the duo in, even if he hadn't consulted Pepper first.

She forgave him, eventually.

Thankfully.

Thor's loud, boisterous, straight from the belly guffaw echoes through the room as his girlfriend, photographer and sweet pea Jane, perches upon his knee, her face buried in his neck. Tony can feel the grip on his arm tightening, and he rushes to play interference, "It's just the Good Witch," he reassures her gently, "The Wicked Witch has been banished for life and is on strict stay away orders."

The Wicked Witch being Clint's ex, Thor's brother Loki.

Tony had been ready to sweep in and bippity bopity fuck his shit up after he found out how bad things thing had been, maybe drop an entire house on him, but he let Thor handle it. Thor may be the living embodiment of sunshine and rainbows, but there is a very good reason why Tony hired him as his bodyguard and head of security: When prompted, the man rolls in like storm clouds with a voice like thunder, it's very intimidating and almost theatrical and Tony loves it.

Tony and Natasha has bonded back then, establishing themselves as the Co-Chairs of the Clint Barton Must Be Protected At All Costs Foundation shortly after the break up.

After the Loki Situation, he nursed that precious pillar of sunshine back from a phenomenal post-break up bender — that even he, crowned prince of questionable decisions made while under the influence of enough recreational chemicals to kill a technicolored pachyderm, had to sit back in awe over — handling things stateside before Natasha swept him off to Russia.

So maybe he's a bit protective over Clint, and maybe he tried to save him from the bedroom eyes of one Bucky Barnes, but Natasha had pulled him aside and let him know, in no uncertain terms, that she already approves so back off.

Don't get the guy wrong, Tony adores Bucky and has him to thank for the tall glass of Muscle Milk who took up residence in his once cold, black heart. Bucky knows not the walk of shame; every time he came stumbling back home from a wild night out — reeking of sex and cigarettes, a cup of coffee in his hand and a bagel shoved in his mouth — it was a ticker tape parade of pride and perversion set to the Boogie Nights soundtrack. He has to give it to the guy, he smolders like no other.

Far be it from Tony to judge Bucky on his coping mechanisms — Brock Rumlow was a piece of fucking work — but the man seemed hell bent on fucking his way through the 212 area code and he can only hope his safe sex lecture stuck.

He hoped that Rumlow had learned his lesson after their last encounter and kindly fucked off out of Bucky's life for good, but apparently nothing gets through that thick head of his. Next time, and there will be a next time, he will let Steve and Thor follow through with their grand plan of grabbing Rumlow by the dick and chopping his whole body off.

Because when it comes down to it, that's all Rumlow is: a dick.

•••

"So, tell me, drummer boy," Clint says, knocking his shoulder into Bucky's as he does so, "That collection of instruments you have just for show?"

"Well," Bucky begins, knotting his fingers in his hair with a grin, "I'm proficient at bass, and I'm more than proficient in the ancient and exquisite art of rhythmically hitting skins and steel with wooden sticks." Clint grins at the Kill Bill reference, as if this guy couldn't be anymore amazing, it's _unfair_. "What 'bout you? Your fingers are magic on a four string man. I mean, legit; I ain't trying to blow smoke up your ass or nothin' when I say your technique is on fuckin' point."

Clint rubs his hand across the back of his hooded neck, hoping his arm hides the sickeningly sweet smile that stretches across his face, "Oh, y'know. A little of this, a little of that. Bass is my true love, but I started playing music on an upside down 5 gallon bucket with a pair of stolen drum sticks when I was six or seven and uh, kind of took it from there." He takes a deep breath, pausing on the inhale as he hears his sisters voice in his head — "It's not bragging, Clint. You're so talented, don't hide it." — before continuing, "I, uh— I also play the piano, guitar, the upright bass, violin... anything with strings really and uh— I've played around with the saxophone and the trumpet, but I'm not at the level where I could play professionally. Oh, and I sing, but not like Nat. I know she's my twin and I'm incredibly biased, but man, you where there, you heard her tonight, her voice is incredible. A talent like that— it's brought her around the world and then some."

As the words tumble from his mouth, Clint keeps his eyes resolutely focused on the ground in front of him, afraid of what could be written across Bucky's face. He knows he's talented, but having to talk about it makes him squirm in his Chuck Taylor high tops. To be honest, he was so entranced by hearing and watching Bucky behind the kit, he shocked himself by asking to cut in and join.

However, as the silence continues, he raises his chin to glance towards Bucky to gauge his reaction only to find the man suddenly a few paces behind him, swaying on his feet, Bucky's lips parted as he stares. When the two finally make eye contact, Bucky shakes his head quickly as to bring him back to the present, his knees bending slightly as an honest to god _whine_ sneaks past those Cupid bow lips.

Bucky closes the distance between the two of them, Dum Dum on his heel, until they're practically standing toe to toe. His mouth opens and closes, bottom lip rolling between his teeth as he tried to find the words, and Clint shifts uncomfortably under that piercing blue gaze.

"Yeah, so. Y'know—" Clint begins lamely, but is cut off by the wrecked smile that dances across Bucky's face.

"Who _are_ you?" Bucky huffs out around a laugh. "Like, fuck. Where have you been all my life? No one should be allowed to look like you do and then be able to do all of that. Is this Tony's fault? Has he been keeping you from me because, fuck man. That's the hottest fucking thing I've ever—" Bucky closes his eyes, forcefully exhaling through his nose like he's trying to center himself, "I don't know what Tony told you about me but—"

Clint shakes his head, "I've been in Russia for the past two years, Nat had a residency and I uh—" he waves his hand, "Bad breakup, needed to get away for a while."

Bucky lets out a soft huff, his small smile genuine and painfully empathic, "Yeah man, I feel ya. I know how that shit goes. My ex thought he'd be cute and show his fucking face at the gig tonight, he didn't make it past the door, but I still had to dip outta there on short notice, y'know?"

"He does that sort of thing?" Clint asks, "Just pops up unannounced?"

Bucky takes a deep breath and nods, "We didn't really end on good terms. I had an idea he was cheatin', but no proof 'till he ghosted on me for 'bouta week. When someone finally answered, it was some broad askin' me if I was the stalker ex boyfriend and to stop callin' because he don't want me back," He let's out short huff of laughter, shaking his head, "We had a gig that night, so o'course I show up. I tried bein' professional, can't leave the band hangin' when it didn't involve them, but Brock— the fuckin' asshole shows up givin' me the cold shoulder with this fuckin' chick hanging 'round his neck like the guy wasn't sleepin' in my fuckin' bed, tellin' me he loved me the week before." He sighs, looking down at his boots, "Well, I didn't take that none to well, kinda tore up the place. Stevie carried me out over his shoulder before the cops showed and arrest me again."

"Wait." Clint stops walking and holds up his hand, " _Again_?"

Bucky stops walking and throws Clint a proud, crooked grin, "A coupl'a years ago, me and Stevie got jumped by these guys on the drunk train. Stevie's got zero tolerance for intolerance, so words got exchanged and next thing you know, one'a them takes a swing at Stevie." He turns to Clint, his eyes alive, and any shadow of disgust with ex his swept away by his smile, "Now Stevie's a big guy, but I'm scrappy as hell and got more than one boxing championship win unda' my belt so we ended up fuckin' those guys up."

He shakes his head, sobering up before continuing, "Well, someone called the cops and we was the ones made out to look like we started it. One of the douchebags pressed charges and—" he waves his wrist in a circular motion, "I wasn't about to let Stevie lose his scholarship, so I ended up takin' the fall, doing a county bullet for assault and battery at Rikers, only did 8 months though 'cause'a good time. You gotta see my mugshot man," Bucky laughs, "Stevie did my make up and I got the biggest shit eatin' grin, I got it hanging up in the shop, it's great."

Clint returns the grin, and replies, "Shit, man, at least you got a good story out of it. Only things I've been popped for was dealing, possession and shoplifting. I'm just a common criminal, you're like a queer super hero."

Dum Dum decides, at that point, he's had enough of the humans standing around and shuffling their feet, so gives his lead a sharp tug back towards his home, dragging Bucky behind him.

He laughs, rolling his eyes and shaking his head at Clint as they follow, "Yeah, yeah bud, I hear ya, we're coming."

The walk back to the warehouse is comfortable, Bucky regaling him with stories of how the neighborhoods changed since he and Stevie — and Clint finds it's adorable he calls Tony's hunk of a boyfriend Stevie — were kids, how as far as his parents are concerned, they have two sons instead of the one. When they turn the corner, Bucky drops the leash, Dum Dum taking off in a full sprint for the fire escape that criss-crosses along the back corner of the building. With much more grace than any dog his impressive size should possess, Dum Dum flies up the sturdy iron grate steps, pausing at each platform to bark, as if he's encouraging the two men to follow.

Bucky looks over at Clint and seemed to consider him for a second, before shooting him and absolute dazzling smile, "You wanna come chill on the roof for a bit? I kinda wanna smoke a joint uh—" he jerks his head towards the building and the commotion going on inside, "I'd kinda rather listen to your voice instead'a whatever techno trash Tony is defiling my PA system with."

Ignoring the fact that Tony is playing triphop and not techno, Clint grins and finds the bravery to wind his fingers through Bucky's own, because really, how is he supposed to say no to a smile like that?

•••

As Bucky unclips his keys from his belt loop to unlock the deadbolt on the window, he's grateful for Dum Dums considerable and familiar weight pressed up against his legs because he suddenly feels way over his head with Clint standing so close behind him, the three huddled on the last platform before the last leg of steps that lead to the roof.

Bucky doesn't bring people home, let alone up to his loft.

He says it's because he doesn't want people trying to get discounts on tattoos, but that's a god damn lie and he knows it. It's easier to make a clean break from a one night stand when he's the one sneaking around a strangers bedroom before the break of dawn, boots in hand, slipping out of an apartment like a whisper on the wind.

No one can ask for his number if he's not around to give it, and after everything with Brock, it's the very last thing he thought he'd be doing with someone he just met, but here he is.

Next to his soundproofed rehearsal space, and just before his work shop up front, Bucky's favorite place in the entire warehouse is his loft. Steve likes to remind him, constantly, that Bucky's aesthetic is that of a street brat dumpster king, and he ain't gonna lie, the mans got a point.

So maybe Bucky's got a bit of a problem letting things go — he's got every concert stub and show poster taped to the walls for posterities sake — and sure, he got most of his furniture second hand or off the curb, but he thinks it gives the place character. His place has none of the old money charm of his parents old brownstone in Clinton Hill, nor the artsy kitch of Red Hook currently, but it's his and it's Stevie's and to them, it's perfect.

"Tony said something about you owning this entire building?" Clint asks as he takes in the concert stubs tucked in between the album art, vintage movie posters and the stolen CBGB flyers that line the walls, "That's impressive, man."

Dropping into his over stuffed, second hand couch with Dum Dum taking his place beneath his feet, Bucky nods, "Yeah, I inherited it, but I put Stevie on the title too, it's just as much his as mine. We been here goin' on eight years."

And yeah, Bucky grew up an old money Rich Kid — private school, music lessons, weekend trips out to the Hamptons, the works — but that don't mean shit now. Contrary to what people think, he and Stevie ain't exactly rollin' in dough. They do well for themselves, sure, but the taxes on the building alone are insane, and the warehouse didn't make it outta the war zone that was Red Hook in the 80's and 90's as well as Steve did.

Crack was a hell of drug.

Clint hums in acknowledgement and Bucky grabs his iPad off his beat up, sticker covered coffee table, trying to ignore the nagging feeling of having someone in his bedroom.

"Oh my god," Clint says as he stands in front of the barrage of old photographs on the wall, "There's no way this is you and Steve." He looks over to Bucky, who can only grin as he nods in response, "He was so tiny."

"Don' let that golden boy, all American act fool ya," Bucky warns, "Stevie may have a super strict moral code he adheres to, but he's got a temper a mile wide. I've been pullin' Stevie Rogers outta brawls with bullies since we was kids. He was a late bloomer, no one could'a guessed he was gonna grow up to be a brick shithouse."

Clint lets out a soft huff of laughter, and turns to face Bucky, shaking his head, "I know all about not judging a book by its cover. My sister is a pretty little thing, but she can fight her way out of a bar after drinking the place under the table. She says it's hard coded in her DNA because she from Russia, but I know the truth." He winks at Bucky, then glances around the room as if to ensure they are truly alone and then stage whispers, "She's actually Wonder Woman. Don't tell anyone."

"You're Russian?" Bucky asks, "My moms family is from Russia."

"Oh, no not me, I'm a Hawkeye," Clint explains proudly, and Bucky's confusion must show on his face, because Clint adds, "That means I'm from Iowa. Our dad, Phil, he adopted me when I was 14, and then Natasha two years later."

"Wait, I thought you guys were twins?"

"Same age, same birthday," Clint shrugs, "We've been together longer than we've been apart and Tony insists we have Twin Telepathy like Wanda and Pietro, and he's not wrong," he says with a grin.

That's all the reasoning Bucky needs honestly, because even though he has a flesh and blood sister — one that he adores dearly — he and Steve are as good as brothers, to the point that people are shocked when they learn otherwise. Some claim that blood is thicker than water, but after everything he and Stevie have been through — Stevie growing up hovering around the poverty line, carrying Sarah's casket after her fight with cancer — Bucky knows the truth behind the idiom: the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.

When Clint flops down on the couch next to Bucky, his body betrays him; he can feel his face warm up and out of a nervous habit, he drags a hand through his hair. This fuckin' guy drops into his life at a dubstep show of all places, and throws Bucky game completely sideways. He feels so out of his element, he's glad that they're up here in the relative safety of his loft so Sam can't see him trip over himself and hold it against him for the rest of his life.

Shaking his head, he hands Clint his iPad, telling him to queue up whatever he'd like on Spotify and grabs his stash box from the table, flipping it open with his thumbs.

"We're gonna have to smoke out on the roof, unless we want the scavengers downstairs to circle like vultures," he explains, pulling out a nice sized nug of bud and a pack of rolling papers, "Hope you don't mind."

Clint smiles, "Not at all."

Bucky takes a deep breath to stop the whine from escaping his throat when Clint puts on The Luck of Lucian by A Tribe Called Quest.

They just met, but Clint Barton is gonna be the death of him, he can already tell.

•••

"Black Flag or Dead Kennedys?" Clint asks, lazily passing the joint to Bucky.

"Dead Kennedys," Bucky replies, "All day, every day."

"Really? Thought you'd be a practicing member of the church of Henry Rollins."

Bucky laughs, exhaling smoke high into the early morning air, "Nah man, Jello Biafra speaks to my soul. Stones or the Beatles?"

"Crank up The Stones. Exile on Main Street is in my top five favorite albums, hands down. What about you?"

"Beatles man. John, Paul, George and Ringo, only four books of the Bible you need'a know. Ringo gets a bad rap for not being this virtuoso, but he was a song drummer man, he sat in the song and he fucking swung it. Here, listen." Bucky grabs his iPad off Clint's lap, nimble fingers flying across the glass as he swipes and taps his way through Spotify, "He had such a beautifully simple kit, but listen to what he does with it."

Ticket to Ride starts to play, and sure, Clint knows the song and he appreciates what The Beatles have done for music, but he's never sat down and just listened before.

"And you hear that tone? How it sounds a bit— not off, but different? It's 'cause he's a lefty, but instead'a doin' what the rest'a us southpaws do and play a god damn lefty kit, he'd play on a standard set an' lead with his left. So when he comes around, with—" He sits up straighter, and in time with the music, follows the beat around his air kit, arms crossed to lead with his left, "it gives it that soupy, swampy, fallin' down the stairs kinda sound. He wasn't a showy drummer because he didn't have to be. I started playin' drums cause'a Keith Moon and The Who, but I became a good drummer cause'a Ringo."

Clint is pretty sure he can listen to Bucky talk about music for the rest of forever. Even now, with a song he's probably heard a gazillion times before, he listens like it's the very first time. His smile is wide and eyes are filled with a certain childlike awe as hands and feet rock and tap with the rhythm.

"Okay okay, so," Clint begins, flapping his wrist as he leans forward to ash the joint, "Classic Rock is obviously your bag—"

"Deadass, my dude."

Clint snorts, hiding his face in his hands, "Oh my god, you're so Brooklyn it hurts, stop stop, let me finish." He takes a steadying breath, shooting Bucky a grin as he passes back the joint, "This is important. Ramones or Sex Pistols?"

Bucky bumps Clint shoulder, rolling his eyes, "You're talkin' to a born and bred New Yorker sweetheart, The Ramones, obviously. The late 70's New York punk rock scene kicked the shit outta Londons, I don't give a fuck what those punk purists say. Bowie or Prince?"

"Oh, the purple one, hands down," Clint answers immediately, "Favorite guitar player, favorite color," Clint laughs, wiggling his purple converse high tops back and forth, "After he died people kept asking me if I was wearing purple because of him, and it's like, nah. Prince turned my soul purple years ago."

"Bowie is my patron Saint of bisexuality," Bucky sighs, taking a deep inhale from the joint, "I was so broken up after he died, drove Stevie crazy for weeks playing nothin' but Bowie records in my state of mourning. I think if he hears Moonage Daydream one more time, he'll kick me out."

"You're bi?"

If Clint wasn't fluent in body language, he may have missed the way Bucky's shoulders tended and his hand stilled before he tried to casually pass over the joint. Clint obviously hit a nerve by asking, and he couldn't imagine why because—

"I swear I'm into guys," Bucky says quickly, "A solid three on the Kinsey Scale. Loud and proud. I'm not on the DL or anything and I swear, I ain't trying to use you to discover another part of myself and— fuck, that came out wrong. I'm usually so much smoother than this, but your face is fuckin' me up and—"

"My face is fucking you up?"

Bucky groans, dragging a flustered hand through his hair, "That's not what I meant. I mean, your face is great, you gotta great face, your smile knocks me on my ass, man. It's just, I ain't never heard someone play bass like that and my dog didn't scare you off and I'm stoned as fuck and kinda drunk and ramblin' and fuck— I must sound like an idiot right now."

Clint's already staring when Bucky turns his head to look at him, long lashes casting shadows against the ambient light of Manhattan. It's peaceful up here — as peaceful Brooklyn can be in the early morning with police sirens screaming in the distance — and Clint decides then and there that he's not a fan of the apprehension behind those brilliant blue eyes. He glances down at Bucky's lips, red and swollen as he worries them between his teeth, and for the first time, in a damn long time, Clint feels 100% sure of himself.

Clint reaches out and runs his thumb down the cleft of Bucky's chin, leaning over to softly brush his lips against Bucky's. He tastes like smoke and hoppy beer when Bucky let's out a small, relieved laugh, his lips pulling into a smile around the kiss as a calloused hand — callouses earned by years gripping drum sticks and plucking bass strings — finds its way around the back of Clint's neck.

Clint cocks his head to the side and looks at Bucky appraisingly, if not a bit apprehensive, "You got plans tomorrow night?"

Bucky raises a questioning eyebrow, a slow smile slipping across his face, "Nothin' that can't be ditched for a good enough reason."

Clint exhales a shaky breath, flushing at the implication that he's the good enough reason, and he fishes his phone out of his pocket. It's not even 4am, Pietro still had to be up bouncing around.

>> you gon be at the bowery tmrw. I need 1 more on the list.

He barely pressed send before the text indicator pops up — he swears, that kid is glued to his phone — and he gets his reply.

>> yes hello old man I missed you too back a week and you can't even visit before for asking favors for shame

Clint rolls his eyes, but ignores the sass. And the dig on his age.

>> can you?

>> obvs but the question is will I

>> you love me and what was more important than coming to see me and nat you knew tony was playing tonight

And just for added effect, he sends over a pouty selfie, because he's not above begging. He lost his last shred of shame a long, long time ago.

>> yes, I can get you in. no, I do not love you. Android Rights on LI with V. Tony can suuuuuuuck it.

>> love you P I'll hit you up tmrw don't miss the drunk train you got 45 min

>> don't tell me how to live my life

Clint drops his phone on his lap and sinks back into the couch, smiling as Bucky shifts, kicking his feet up on the coffee table as he slumps flush against his side.

"You wanna come to the Bowery with me tomorrow?" Clint asks, "The Floozies are playing The Bowery. They mash up hip hop beats and live guitar, they're funky as fuck. A rhythm guy like you should love it."

He jumps, only a little, when Bucky's hand snakes out, tattooed fingers running under his arm before gripping his hand with all the confidence that Clint seems to lack.

"You askin' me out on a date?" Bucky replies lightly, resting his head on Clint's shoulder.

"You saying yes?"

And Bucky chuckles, a low and rumbling sound from deep in his throat as he nods, "Don't be an idiot," Bucky says, passing the joint over with his free hand, "'course I am."

Clint let's out a huff of relieved laughter, taking one last hit before snubbing the last of the joint in the ashtray on the side table. He kicks his feet up as well, and in a moment of bravery, links one of his ankles with Bucky's with a smile.

Dum Dum begins to bark, and seconds later Natasha is calling his name from ground level, telling him to get his ass downstairs because they're heading out.

"Of course," Clint sighs, turning to bring their foreheads together, "I love my sister to death, but she has the worse timing."

Bucky steals one last kiss before pulling back, and it may be the pot talking, but he has the most beautiful smile Clint's ever seen.

"I'll see you tomorrow night, yeah?"

Clint grins, nodding his head, "The Floozies. You're gonna love 'em. Or I hope you'll love 'em."

"S'long as I get to watch you dance again, I think I'll manage either way," Bucky says, dragging himself to his feet, reaching out to take Clint's hand.

Clint hands over his phone and they exchange numbers, and he grins when he see Bucky saved his name with a skull and the space invader emoji.

"Let's go Clint," Natasha yells again, "Chop chop!"

Clint throws a thumb over his shoulder, "I gotta—" he begins, before promptly tripping over his own two feet, saved in the end by Bucky's quick thinking and an impromptu hug, taking the opportunity to bury his face into Bucky's neck.

Bucky leaves him with one last kiss to the temple, before watching Clint leave down the iron steps of the fire escape.

Natasha is smiling as she holds out her hand, linking their fingers together, "Someone looks like they had a good night."

Clint hopes the shadows of the building hides the absolutely ridiculous blush of his cheeks as he nods, "You know what Nat, I don't wanna hear it."

She hums as they make their way to the awaiting car, Clint giving one last glance up to the roof to find Bucky still waiting, watching, sending him off with a sloppy salute before he melts back into the shadows.

•••

"Jesus fuck, Carter!" Bucky shouts, nearly catching the lip of the door and tumbling into his room at the sight of the smirking brunette perched on his bed, "Warn a guy will ya?"

Miss Margaret Carter was Bucky's apprentice at the shop, and an absolute spitfire of a woman that could cut a man down with nothing but her charming British accent and her razor sharp smile.

She and Steve met at an Occupy Wall Street rally a few years back, then ran into each other again at a women's rights march and when Steve stumbled upon her old school sailor style line work on Tumblr, he made an entire PowerPoint presentation to convince Bucky to hire her as his apprentice.

It wasn't necessary, Bucky could tell she was talented, but that didn't mean he ain't above making Steve beg.

Bucky adores Peggy, she's an absolute doll, and one of his most favorite people, and she knows it.

She rocks the pinup aesthetic with ease, a perfect visage of the bombshells painted on the side of a WW2 bombers, with a wit just as destructive as their payload. She was a whip smart grad student at NYU, majoring in gender studies and on a one woman mission to crush the patriarchy beneath her authentic, vintage heels. One of Bucky's favorite past times was to sit back and watch her dismantle the ego of any man who dared to cat call her on the subway.

And here she sits, cross legged on Bucky's bed, patting the empty space next to her on his bed, "C'mere love," she says, reaching her hand out to him, "Steve texted me, told me what happened with Brock. I regret I wasn't there to forcibly castrate that wanker on your behalf."

"I don't wanna talk about him," Bucky grumbles, pushing the surge of negative emotions that boiled up from his chest at the mention of that douchebags name, "I want his dick chopped off."

Peggy nods, understanding, then turns a coy smile in his direction, "Steve also told me about a pretty blonde that you disappeared with all night with. Can we talk about him? I would really like to hear all about him."

Bucky can't stop the admittedly drunk and stupid smile from spreading across his face as he falls into bed, burying his face on Peggy's lap, humming happily as she runs his fingers through his hair, "Yeah, yeah. Clint," he mumbles, "Let's talk 'bout him 'stead."

"Steve tells me he's one of Tony's boys," She begins, pushing his hair off of his face and tucking it behind his ear, "I found him on Instagram. Rather cute, that one. Frankly, I was shocked he wasn't bringing you home, from what I heard the two of you really got on."

Bucky groans, because really, he has no one to blame for his reputation other than himself, and rolls over to face her full on, "Nah, Peg. You don't get it, he's awesome. Yeah he's hot and got shoulders that don't quit but I don't wanna just fuck him and run, I wanna, ugh, I don't know—"

"Wine and dine the boy?"

He scrubs his hands over his face, if only to hide the absolutely embarrassing blush he feels creeping across his face, "This ain't England, Peg. We ain't proper like that, was thinking pizza." He spreads his fingers, peeking her pleased smile before continuing, "We're catching a show 'namorrow night at the Bowery."

Her smiles blooms as leans down to press a perfect, red kiss to his forehead, "Oh, love. That's brilliant, what do you plan on wearing?"

Bucky shrugs, looking down at his daily duds of a black tee shirt and jeans, "This, but cleaner? I don't know, Peg. S'why I got you, yeah? Make sure I'm all polished and presentable and shit?"

"Who're you boys going to go see?"

"I dunno, some EDM bullshit. They got a guitarist and a drummer so not all hope is lost. Clint says it's like if funk, hip hop and EDM had a sexy baby or some shit. I don't know, he's a hell of a musician so I kinda trust the guys ear." He sighs deeply and looks up at her with a shameless smile, "Ya hear this shit? I don't even know if the dick is good and I don't care. I just wanna watch the man dance, Peg."

Her smile is warm and genuine, and she tilts her head to the side as if she's being shown a revelation, "I do say, James Barnes. You seem to be finally growing up, I'm proud of you."

He shoots her a face, smearing lipstick all over his forehead with the back of his hand, before playfully pushing her away, "I just remembered I hate you, why are you here. Go bother Stevie or somethin' leave me 'lone Peg."

She simply rolls her eyes and gives his ear lobe a flick, saying, "Hush, darling. You adore me, you boys would be lost without me."

Bucky hums in agreement, because he knows it's the god damn truth.

And since Peggy Carter only does exactly what Peggy Carter wants to do, she toes off her heels and makes herself comfortable, telling Bucky about how her burlesque show went tonight as he drifts off to the feeling of her nails across his scalp.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
